


A Commander Shepard Thanksgiving

by Kylenne



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Domestic, Female Character of Color, Fluff, Multi, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylenne/pseuds/Kylenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imani Shepard has a lot to be thankful for, and so does the rest of the galaxy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Commander Shepard Thanksgiving

Even Elysium was still a bit chilly during this time of year, but “chilly” on Elysium just meant Shepard had to throw on her N7 hoodie when she ran out to the market to grab a last-minute container of heavy cream.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Commander,” the beleaguered batarian cashier girl said with a weary smile as she handed over the paper bag.

“You too, Misha,” Shepard said. She made a mental note to come bring her a plate when her shift was over.  
That’s just the way it was on Elysium. Everyone celebrated it, whether they understood what it really meant or not, and it meant something different to everyone. It didn’t even mean the same things for humans, after all. What was once a whitewashed Norman Rockwell scene of North Americana celebrating a sanitized story of genocide had, over the centuries, turned into a global festival of healing and reconciliation. Every human culture had re-invented it, and when humanity reached out across the stars, other cultures took it and made it their own. Everyone loves an excuse to pig out on comfort food, besides.

Since the War, though…there was another, even deeper meaning, and a renewed sense of purpose to this day. Krogan gave thanks for their newborn children, turians gave thanks for the krogan who saved their homeworld from annihilation, quarians gave thanks for the geth who freed them from the confines of their environment suits, and asari gave thanks simply for surviving. Survival—that was the one thing everyone understood. That was the one thing everyone could give thanks for, regardless of the kind of food on the table.

And that day, an awful lot of people from all different species were giving thanks as they always had for this particular woman, this one brave woman carrying a paper bag of groceries down to the house on the beach where it wasn’t really cold enough to wear ugly sweaters or drink warm apple cider. She wasn’t Commander Shepard that day, though. Not the Hero of this world, nor the Savior of the Citadel, not even the Champion of Earth. No space messiahs today.

Today, she was just Imani Shepard, matriarch of this unlikeliest of families. She felt a little young to be a “matriarch”, truth be told. And she wasn’t quite ready to be called Mama Shepard just yet—she needed a few dozen more pounds and about forty more years for that. “Mom” was just fine, for now.

Shepard walked in the door to the sweet, earthy scent of cornbread wafting through the house. Oriana was running interference like a goal tender with the cats, who were staring at the large golden bird on the table, while Mouse and Kolyat set out the placemats. Miranda was nowhere in sight. That was a bad sign, Shepard thought. 

That meant she was in the kitchen.

“She lives! I was about to send out a search and rescue team,” Garrus chuckled.

“Look, buddy,” Shepard said, kissing him on the cheek. “I took out the Reapers. I think I can handle a line at the Stop ‘n’ Shop.”

Thane smiled, pulling the cream out of the bag and immediately pouring it into the bowl on the counter. “I’m surprised you didn’t just talk your way through it,” he said.

“Everyone’s a comedian today.”

“That’s what happens when you marry the two biggest smart asses in the galaxy,” Garrus said. “Dextro pudding’s done, by the way. I even managed not to eat the whole pan. You’re really getting the hang out this, Imani.”

She smiled, and pulled off her hoodie. “I did grow up on a farm, Garrus. I was cooking before I could walk—”

“Miranda!” Thane said sharply. “Step away from the skillet. I implore you.”

“Oh, come _off it_ ,” Miranda scoffed—but she did back away. “I was just stirring the Curry Rakhana. I know what I’m doing with a _spoon_.”

“You were looking suspiciously at the paprika.”

“How exactly does one look suspiciously at a spice, Thane?”

“The way you just did,” Garrus said. “I used to be a cop, I know from suspicious. And you had plans for that paprika, Lawson.”

Miranda snorted. “I don’t know what the big deal is, I did get cooking genes, you know.”

“Yeah, you did,” Shepard said, slipping past her to mind the stove. “The white, Australian ones. Henry was crazier than you thought.” Shepard grinned, and Miranda narrowed her eyes and smacked her with a dish towel.

“See if I ever bring you back from the dead again,” Miranda muttered.

“Mom? We need more ice,” Kolyat yelled from the other room.

“You got it,” Shepard said, and walked over to the VI.

It was just another Thanksgiving on Elysium in the Shepard household, with prayers of thanks to the Neteru, Amonkira, and the spirits around a big table covered by a multi-species smorgasbord of roasted turkey and stuffing, collard greens and candied yams, savory turian meat pies and spicy drell curry rice (all in levo and dextro varieties). There was plenty of hot sauce, of course, and even more teasing. And an entire extra table just for dessert.

Most importantly, there were four humans, two drell, one turian, and a great deal of warm laughter.

Norman Rockwell had nothing on this.


End file.
